Mateo glanced toward me and grinned. “Why don’t we all have a little game of baseball? That would be good exercise, right, Izzy?”
“But there’s only six of us,” I said.
“It’s enough. I can pitch, you play second and first base.” Mateo turned to Maggie. “You can play the outfield with Frida. And the adults will be the other team.” He stood and began clearing the table. “We can play at the big clearing by the river since the mesa will be full of villagers waiting for the fireworks show.”
Nana snorted. “Are you loco? I can barely swing a flyswatter! And your mama? She might break a nail.”
Everyone laughed at this. Except Tía. She tossed her head back with an air of superiority and dabbed at her melting makeup with another napkin. “I’ll have you know I played softball in junior high. I even won a trophy.”
“Well, you’re not going to play in those.” Mateo pointed to her high heels. “Do you even own a pair of tennis shoes?”
I stood and looped my arm through Tía’s. “Maybe a pair of mine will fit.” I led her away from the table, and as I looked over my shoulder at Mateo, I said to Tía, “As a matter of fact, why don’t you be on my team? Mateo can be on Mr. Castillo’s.”
Inside, I collected everything we’d need: a pair of tennis shoes for Tía, Dad’s jersey for me, and the baseball for all of us.
Out in the clearing, Nana stood behind a big flat rock we used for home plate. With the bat held in her left hand and resting on her left shoulder, she made the sign of the cross and kissed her fingertips. Mr. Castillo tossed the ball underhand and when Nana swung, the bat flew from her hands and rocketed toward Frida, who dashed under a bush safely.
Nana snickered. “Slipperier than I thought.” I retrieved the bat and told Nana to keep a firmer grip. She nudged the dirt with the toe of her tennis shoe and reanchored her stance. “I’m ready.”
Mr. Castillo pitched the next three balls high and to the outside.
“Ah, come on, Dad. You’re not going to walk her, are you?” Mateo hollered.
“Just warming up my rusty arm.” Mr. Castillo wound his arm in looping circles and rubbed his shoulder before he threw another high ball.
“That’s the fourth ball.” Tía called from the sidelines. “You get to go to first base now!”
Nana picked up her skirt and marched to first base, smiling wide as if she’d hit a home run.
Tía strolled toward home plate like one of those runway models on TV. Maggie followed.
“What’re you doing, mija?” Mr. Castillo asked.
Maggie crouched low and adjusted her backpack. “I’m going to run for her so she won’t get sweaty.”
Mr. Castillo shook his head as Tía planted the bat over her shoulder, bent her knees, and sashayed her hips. “Pitch it right to the center.”
I don’t think Mr. Castillo thought she could hit the ball because he lobbed it right to her. When she pulled the bat back, her raspberry nails glistened in the afternoon sun. She smashed the ball so hard, I worried it might split in two. Up, up, up it flew before crashing down into the outfield.
Maggie bolted toward first base with Frida at her heels. Mateo scooped up the ball and launched it back to Mr. Castillo, who tagged Nana as she scuttled to second.
It was finally my turn. Mr. Castillo wound his arm and pitched the ball underhand.
Strike one.
“Don’t go easy on her, Dad!” Mateo called from center field.
I narrowed my eyes at Mateo. Mr. Castillo threw another underhanded pitch and I smacked the ball right over center field.
Tía cheered, “Run, Izzy, run!” as Maggie rounded second, then third, and made it home for our first score. Within seconds, I’d rounded the first base rock and was sprinting toward second. Mateo ran for the ball, which had flown over his head into a bush. My legs burned as I dashed past third and headed for home. Just as I was about to slide into the plate, I saw Mr. Castillo from the corner of my eye catch the ball and run toward the home base rock.
But he was too late. I made it home before he could catch me.
Mr. Castillo gripped his chest then rolled to the ground dramatically, gasping for air. “You definitely hit like your papa,” he said between gasps. Then he smiled and handed the baseball to me.
The burn in my legs radiated all over my body and I kissed the baseball. “Thanks.”
Nana, Tía, and Maggie hooted and hollered for me.
By the time it was Mateo’s turn to bat, I was warmed up and ready to win.
Standing on the little hill of dirt we made for the pitcher’s mound, I hiked my leg in the air like the players on TV and pitched the ball to Mateo as hard as I could.
Crack!
A gust of wind reached up, caught the ball, and carried it over my head. I watched it sail beyond the shrubs into a cluster of cottonwoods.
“I’ll get it!” I called as I ran toward the trees.
Mateo cheered behind me, “Home run!” And I knew he was right. The ball had zipped too far for me to get it in time to tag Mateo out.
As I plodded through shrubs, a warm wind swept across my back urging me forward.
“Did you lose this?” a voice called out as I scanned the ground.
I glanced up to find a woman standing in front of a small adobe house. She had a garden hose in one hand and my baseball in the other.
“Yes,” I answered, unsure of whether she was going to throw it or if she expected me to come get it myself.
Stepping closer, I realized I had found the storyteller’s home.
“Looks like your ball found its way right to my doorstep,” she said as she stared at the words written on the ball. “Magic?”
I wiped a hand across my hot face and swept my tongue over the roof of my dry mouth. “My dad wrote that.”
She handed me the ball. “Do you play?”
“Not really. We were just having a game for fun.”
She nodded and smiled. “I’m Socorro. I know your nana.”
“I’m Izzy.”
“Mateo told me you’d be coming by for a story.”
“With him and Maggie,” I said, gripping the baseball.
“Come tomorrow and make sure to bring your story cards.” She turned back to her garden. “You should hurry back. You don’t want to miss the fireworks show,” she said, glancing toward the dusky sky.
“How did you know?” I stepped back in amazement. “About my story cards?”
With her back to me, she chuckled and said, “I will see you tomorrow.”
As I sprinted back, the first of the fireworks exploded across the sky in sparkling streams of white. And for a moment it looked like a hundred magic baseballs were falling from heaven.
17
The Storyteller
Socorro sat in a rocking chair under the sprawling cottonwood in her backyard. Her long skirt reached past her feet, inching to the wet grass.
“Welcome,” she said as we entered her back gate and crossed the lawn. Her hair hung in a long braid, a few strands curled across her cheek.
Maggie jumped into Socorro’s lap while Mateo and I spread out blankets on the ground in front her. I clutched a small green canvas bag I’d brought from Nana’s that held my story cards and knelt on the blanket next to Mateo.
Socorro wrapped her arms around Maggie, like a momma bear around her cub.
“Now, what type of story would you all like to hear today?” she said.
“Maggie wants to hear a ghost story,” Mateo said. “A true one.”
Before Maggie could protest, Socorro laughed. “Too old to ask for your own ghost stories?”
Mateo leaned back onto his elbows and huffed, “No.”
A flock of gray birds swooped across the sky behind her and settled on a branch above. They had come to hear the story too.
“Very well. Today I will tell you a true story.” Socorro took several deep breaths and closed her eyes. “Many, many years ago a Mexican family lived near this very village.” Her
voice rose and fell with the perfect pitch of a bedtime lullaby. She continued to tell us about the family’s home that had been destroyed by a fire. “Only one wall and the floor were left, but they didn’t have the money to rebuild their home. No one in town would take them in, so the mother, father, and the daughter traveled across the desert looking for help until they came to a small adobe where two sisters lived. The sisters gave them shelter and over the course of two weeks the young girl became enchanted with their ways. They made strange brews and spoke magical chants at night. One day the sisters told the family to go home and sleep on the floor of their burned house, where they would find the unexpected. The family thought this was a strange request but had come to trust the sisters and did as they instructed. So they made the journey back. Their first night home they slept on the hard tile floors. The girl woke up in the middle of the night and felt cold hands wrapped around her feet.”
Socorro opened her eyes and spoke slowly. “Cold hands are always the sign of the dead come back to visit.”
Maggie buried her face in Socorro’s neck.
“The next night the girl felt the same cold hands. The family came to find out that the original house had been built by a man who, many believed, got trapped in the wall during the house’s construction and died there, standing straight up. When the house burned down, his spirit was finally set free, but he was restless. The girl felt like he had something to show her. So, she went back to the sisters and asked them what to do. They gave her an ancient chant that could only be used once and told her to recite it by the light of the full moon over the river.”
Socorro closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sky, as if she were listening to the flutter of an angel in flight.
Finally, she began again.
“Once the spirit was set free, he appeared before the girl and told her to remove six tiles from the floor in her room. After removing them she found a small wooden box filled with silver. The family celebrated their newfound wealth. Now they could rebuild their home and would never have to worry about money again. The girl was so happy she went back to the sisters in the desert to thank them, but she could not find the house again. It was like it never existed.”
Socorro widened her eyes. “But it was not the silver that possessed the true value.”
“What was it, Socorro? What?” Maggie bounced impatiently.
Socorro studied the sky. “A storm is coming. We can finish the story tomorrow. You should get home.” Maggie stood up and clapped her hands. She hopped from one foot to the other with excitement. “I want to know what happens! Does the girl live happily ever after?”
After folding up our blankets, Mateo nudged me and whispered, “Ask her now.”
Socorro stood up and asked if I liked her story.
I slid the canvas bag over my shoulder and nodded. “Especially how she got to talk to the spirit.” I couldn’t help but think about what it might feel like to talk to my dad. Just once. “Did those things really happen?”
Socorro nodded. “Of course.”
Mateo tugged Maggie by the arm. “Come on, we can wait outside.”
They shuffled out the side gate as I stood alone under the tree with the storyteller. Socorro stepped closer, glancing at my bag. Her skin was smooth and beautiful. “May I see them? Your story cards?”
After I handed her the cards, she shuffled through them and looked back to me. “You want to know how to tell a story.”
My heart jumped faster than a six-legged cricket. “I get started but can’t seem to finish. To tie all the pieces together.”
“How long do you sit with your stories?”
“Sit?”
“You must be very patient to tell stories. And you must sit with the idea, allowing it to simmer like soup on the stove. You wouldn’t go to all the trouble of cutting up the ingredients, throwing them in the pot and expecting it to cook without fire, right?”
“So I’m supposed to cook the story?” I looked at her quizzically.
She unbraided her hair and let it blow in the breeze. “That is a good way to put it. Here’s what you should do. When you get an idea for a story, write down the idea. Don’t worry about getting anything right. Then think about that idea and let it simmer as you think. Write down ideas, thoughts, anything you can imagine. When I was young I wrote down single words I liked or I’d describe someone I found interesting.”
“But—”
“Don’t worry about what comes first and what comes last. Just write. The pieces will come together at the right time.” She threaded her fingers through her hair and motioned toward the house. “Come inside. I have something to show you.”
I tucked my story cards back into the bag and followed her to the screened-in porch, where colored pieces of glass hung suspended by ribbons from the rafters. As she walked by, she ran her hand through them. Their music floated across the porch, jingling like a tambourine.
“What are these?” I asked, reaching to touch them.
“They are truth catchers made of handblown glass. The artist heats the glass in the furnace and uses a pipe to blow and shape the glass into anything she desires. The light reflected by the catchers carries the truth. You see this one?” She pointed to a turquoise square. “This one captures the light of the first full moon of the year.”
I peered through a peach-colored heart, but all I saw was Socorro’s porch bathed in sunny hues.
“I hear you see things far away, sometimes as far away as the future,” I said, my eyes now fixed on the other pieces of sparkling glass.
Her lips curled into a small smile. “And what else do you hear?”
“Mateo says you could see a tortilla on the moon.”
Socorro chuckled. “And what do you think?”
“I don’t really see how a tortilla could get to the moon.”
Laughing, she pulled down a yellow truth catcher. “Only the right person can see the truth in the light and what it is saying.” She handed me the round piece of glass. “I want you to have this.”
The golden glass was half the size of a tortilla, with several tiny air bubbles suspended inside. But the outside felt smooth, like Nana’s hands.
“Hang it near your window. It will catch the light of the sun when it comes into your room. There, you will see the truth.” She spoke softly.
“What kind of truth?” I wondered.
“The most important kind of truth. You will know when the time is right.”
She crossed the porch and sat in a large easy chair in the corner. “Now, you have another question for me?”
It seemed rude to ask her such a silly question now, after she had been so nice to me—but I really wanted to see Mateo’s map. And to prove to him I was brave. “Your hair … I want to know … how did it get so white?”
Socorro pulled her long hair over her right shoulder and studied it in the fading afternoon light. “I have my father’s hair. He was born in the moonlight, as was I.” She turned her face to me.
“Every year, during the moon’s harvest, the moonbeams turn another strand to white. It is where all my wisdom and power come from.”
“Why is that a secret?” I asked.
“It’s not. I’ve just … no one has asked before.”
I set the truth catcher in the canvas bag. The weight of it anchored the bag to my side as it hung from my shoulder. Before pressing open the screen door, I turned back to Socorro. “Can I come back sometime?”
“Anytime.”
When I stepped outside the gate, Mateo lunged forward. “Well? Did you find out the secret of her hair?”
Maggie pulled on the edge of my shirt. “Tell us about her hair, Izzy.”
Maggie and Mateo stared at me, waiting, as if my words really mattered. As if nothing in the world was more important.
I leaned forward. “It’s the moonlight. She said it gives her wisdom.”
“She doesn’t see ghosts?” Mateo sounded disappointed.
“No ghosts,” I said.
“Is the moonlight going to turn my hair white too?” Maggie asked, her eyes wide with fear.
I knelt in front of her and smiled. “Of course not.”
“Why did you take so long?” Mateo asked.
“No reason.” But I could feel the reason bumping alongside my hip all the way home.
18
Mateo’s Treasure Map
With three weeks left until I had to go back to California, I felt like there were still so many unanswered questions. I hope, hope, hoped the truth catcher would hurry and show me what I needed to see. Maybe it would tell me what the wind had been trying to say for so long, or give me the missing words from my baseball.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Socorro’s instructions to let my story simmer. So for the next few days, I wrote everything down. How the gold and pink hues reflected off the Sandia mountains, the way the moon looked like a feather floating down from the sky, the way Nana’s tortillas filled me up, the words I’d heard on the wind.
“What’re you doing?” Maggie asked as she skidded into the room with Frida on her heels.
“Just writing.” I liked the way that sounded. Like I was official or something.
“What’re you writing? Anything about me?” Maggie asked, bouncing on the bed.
“I really don’t have a story yet. Just bits and pieces.”
“Could you write one for me? I’ll be the princess and you can be in it if you want and make sure I get to fly. Oh, and you could talk about the ladder I’m going to build and—”
I raised my hands in the air, laughing. “Hold on. That’s a lot of information. When I learn to write a whole story, I promise to write one for you.”
“How long is that gonna take?”
I flipped through my stack of cards and shrugged. “As soon as I can make any of these fit together.”
Maggie hopped off the bed and leaned over the desk. “So that’s all? You just have to fit those cards together?”
“Kind of.”
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